The Letter
by wileej
Summary: Sherlock, who is muggle-born, is completely out of place at Hogwarts. That all changes, however, when he befriends John Watson, a third-year beater on the Griffindor Quidditch team. A time goes by the pair get closer and closer... Johnlock AU Sherlock/Harry Potter crossover


_Chapter One _

_A Curious Letter and a Curiouser Visit_

Sherlock Holmes was a strange boy. Well, to his neighbours, school teachers and peers, he was strange. Mycroft, however, had always known that his younger brother was special.

Once, when Sherlock was four and Mycroft was fourteen, Sherlock had made a paper airplane that flew wherever he would tell it to fly. Mycroft remembered the little white plane flying all about the parlor, making wide loops and barrel-rolling through the air. And then, whenever Sherlock decided it would, it returned gracefully to the child's hands.

There had been many instances throughout his younger brother's life, similar to the paper plane, that were impossible to explain. The time when their mother's rose bed, which had died because of a drought, had sprung back to life the next day. The time when Sherlock's favourite stuffed animal had been torn, and when Mycroft had returned with the sewing kit, there were five more of the same toy in its place.

Mycroft had always known Sherlock was special, yes, but he would be lying to himself if he said that he'd expected what he got through the mail slot the day Sherlock turned eleven.

It was the first day of August, a Tuesday. Mycroft was in the kitchen, preparing dinner, when he heard the soft _thud _of mail falling into the little basket attached to the door (Sherlock had thought of this, so that the mail wouldn't get wet or dirty on the ground). Odd, Mycroft thought as he dried his hands on his apron, that the mail would come so late at night. He stepped into the front hall to see a large barn owl take off from the windowsill and into the night.

Mycroft ran to the window and watched the silhouette of the owl for a moment or two. "Curiouser and curiouser," he murmured, and the memory of reading Sherlock _Alice in Wonderland_ at bedtime bubbled to the front of his mind. He smiled as he picked the thick envelope from the basket and read the front.

_Mr Sherlock Holmes_

_The backyard_

_Two hundred and twenty-one, Baker Street_

_London_

Puzzled, Mycroft made his way to the back door. His younger brother had never gotten mail before—then again, neither had he. They did not have relatives to send them Christmas and birthday letters, and all the bills and boring stuff were addressed to their parents.

Mycroft turned the letter over. It had been sealed shut by a bright red wax seal. It looked like the crest of some sort of school, with four animals (one in each corner) and a large H in the centre.

Mycroft opened the door to the backyard. In the fading light of twilight, he could make out Sherlock's silhouette in the far corner of the yard, where the pond was. He was probably catching frogs, or grasshoppers, or something. Mycroft made his way over to him.

"Sherlock," he called, and the boy's head popped up. He was crouched over something. "Mycroft, c'mere," he called, beckoning madly with his hand. Mycroft peered over Sherlock's shoulder. In between his hands was a large, clear bowl, and swimming inside it were about fifteen tiny fishlike creatures. Mycroft made a face.

"What in the world are those things?" he said, crouching down next to his brother to get a closer look. "Tadpoles," Sherlock responded matter-of-factly, tapping his hand on the side of the bowl. "That's not even the best part. Look," Sherlock lifted the bowl to Mycroft's eye level.

Right in front of his eyes, the tadpoles began to change. They grew bigger and bigger. In a second, they had already begun to grow legs. Within thirty seconds, Mycroft was staring at a bowl filled with full grown, bright green frogs.

Sherlock tipped the bowl over and let the brand new frogs spill back into the pond. He glanced at Mycroft, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Then he noticed the letter in his older brother's hands.

"What's the letter for?" he asked, and Mycroft snapped out of his reverie. He shook his head and looked at the envelope in his hands. "Oh," he mumbled, trying to remember what it was for. "The letter… Right. A letter came in the mail. For you." He handed it to Sherlock and sat heavily on the grass.

Sherlock stared at the letter as though it were sealed with pure gold. "A letter?" he said, "for _me_?" Without another word, he tore open the envelope and pulled out the parchment inside.

"_Dear Mr Holmes_," he read aloud, "_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_…" he trailed off as he read the rest of the letter in silence, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Mycroft cocked his head. "So it was a school," he said, leaning back on his elbows. "I didn't know that Mum and Dad enrolled you somewhere else. And what was that about Witchcraft—,"

But before he could finish, Sherlock jumped up and bolted to the house, knocking over the bowl along the way. Mycroft called out to him, but Sherlock already tore through the door and up the stairs. Mycroft groaned and followed.

"What's all the hustle for, then?" Mycroft said as he peered into Sherlock's room. The boy had his trunk open on his bed, and was hurriedly filling it with clothes from his dresser, books, and various other trinkets from his room. "Are we running away from home, now?"

Sherlock paused in his flurry to thrust the opened letter into Mycroft's hands. "I've been accepted to a _Magic_ school, Mycroft!" he said, tossing more clothes into the open trunk. Mycroft read through the letter.

"_Please find enclosed a list of all the necessary books and equipment_… And what's this about an owl?"

"I haven't the slightest," Sherlock responded, and laughed hysterically. Mycroft shook his head and caught Sherlock by the shoulders. "Alright," he said, and knelt down in front of his brother. The huge smile on Sherlock's face and the gleam in his eyes nearly broke Mycroft's heart.

"Now, Sherlock… there isn't really a way we can _prove _that this is a, you know, a real acceptance letter," he said, slowly, so that Sherlock would hear and understand all of it. "Look, I know it would be wonderful to go to a school like this, and I know you don't like the one you're at now, but…" The smile on Sherlock's face slowly began to disappear. Mycroft took a deep breath. "You told me you have some bullies at your school, right? I think… I think this might be a mean trick they're pulling on you. I mean, there's can't really be a school for _wizards_, can there?" At this, Sherlock jerked away from Mycroft. His face looked as though anger and pain were fighting over the right to show themselves. Tears filled the little boy's eyes.

"It's real, Mycroft," he insisted, balling his hands into fists, "it's _real_."

It was as though he thought he could convince Mycroft of its credibility by repeating it over and over. Mycroft sighed and reached a hand out to Sherlock. Sherlock batted it away. "_Don't look at me like that!_" He screamed, tears streaming down his face. Just then, there was a _BANG_ directly below them, in the parlor, followed by loud clattering. Startled, both brothers looked toward the door.

Mycroft stood and headed for the parlor. When Sherlock tried to come along, Mycroft stopped him. "You stay here," he said, and received such a look of pure hatred that he grudgingly let the boy follow.

The brothers crept toward the parlor entrance, the carpeted floor making their approach virtually soundless. Mycroft cast a glance into the room just in time to see a tall, skinny figure crawl from the fireplace. If someone were to tell Mycroft to describe Merlin, he would have described this particular person; a tall, elderly man with a long, white beard and even longer white hair, a deep blue cloak decorated with glittering silver stars and piercing blue eyes covered by half-moon glasses.

As though he had heard his thoughts, the man met Mycroft's eyes and smiled. Mycroft took a sharp breath and snapped his head from the doorway. He reached for Sherlock's hand only to find that Sherlock was no longer next to him.

"Are you a wizard?" Sherlock said from inside the parlor, and Mycroft nearly screamed in frustration. He turned only to see Sherlock standing directly in front of the strange man, who smiled down at him. Mycroft noticed that the man was absolutely covered in black soot.

Mycroft strode over to Sherlock and pulled him behind him. "Stay away from my brother," he snarled, but the man only smiled brighter.

"Ah," he man said, opening his arms warmly (and also in a way of submission), "you must be Mycroft. Fear not, young man, I wish no harm on your brother." The man nodded his head in a bow. "I am professor Albus Dumbledore, headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Mycroft groaned and passed a hand over his face. "Can't you people give him a break?" The man cocked his head and made a puzzled expression. It only made Mycroft angrier. "Leave my brother alone, you psychotic bastard, or so help me—,"

"_Mycroft_!" Sherlock stepped in front of Mycroft and pushed against his belly with both hands. Confused, Mycroft looked down at Sherlock. He was trying to protect this oddball—from _him_? "Mycroft, please, he's telling the truth! How do you think he got into our fireplace?"

At that, Mycroft stopped. How _did _this man get there? He was sure that he had seen the man _crawl out _of the fireplace, even though, looking at it now, it certainly wasn't deep enough for an entire person to fit inside.

He met the strange man's eyes then. Albus Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow. "If it's proof you're looking for…" he said, reading Mycroft's mind. Then, with a flick of the wizard's wrist, every single piece of furniture in the parlor began to float. The grand piano, the leather couches, the television and television stand—it all began to fly about the room, as weightless as soap bubbles.

Mycroft watched in awe, his mouth hanging open. Sherlock grinned and looked up at the headmaster, who winked and grinned back at the boy.

"So," Albus Dumbledore said, and clapped his hands together. Instantly, the furniture all took their places on the ground, as though nothing had even happened. "I shall assume that you don't have an owl, and will accept a verbal confirmation to the acceptance at this time." He glanced at Mycroft's frozen wide-eyed stare. "Or, ah, whenever is comfortable for you."


End file.
